


Duranies: My Taylored Absurd Notion

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [10]
Category: Arcadia (UK Band), Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos), The Power Station (Band)
Genre: 30 Day Duran Duran Fic Challenge, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Anal Train, Analysis, Backstage antics, Band Break Up, Big Thing, Blood, COVID-19, Cocaine, Dancing, Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Fashion Disasters, Ficlet, Film, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Goodbyes, Grinding, Groping, Guitar Fetish, Hair Dye, Hair Pulling, Hand Kink, Leather Kink, Lingerie, Live Aid, M/M, Make-up, Memory Lane, Men Crying, Men Cuddling, Miami Vice - Freeform, Minor Injuries, Models, Music Videos - Freeform, Non Fiction, Parody, Photographs, Photoshoots, Piano, Pining, Post-Break Up, Quarantine, Rollercoasters, Sex Robots, Shower Sex, Soulmates, Teasing, Threesome, Thunder - Freeform, Vampires, Voyeurism, auditions, bond, breakdowns, hair disasters, hand holding, identity crisis, mannequins, men kissing, name games, rhythm section, soft, strip teases, transcript, vhs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: My take on @allmywill30 Day Duran Duran Fic Challenge!Stories will be posted throughout April, with a new prompt and pairing. Stories will range in terms of length and rating, although not all will be NSFW.Duranies, Rock On!
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Andy Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), John Taylor (Duran Duran)/Original Female Character(s), John Taylor/Michael Des Barres, John Taylor/Renée Simonsen, John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Nick Rhodes/Andy Taylor/John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Nick Rhodes/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075265
Comments: 95
Kudos: 39





	1. I Can’t Say No More, Baby Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the beautiful Allie for giving me yet another chance to unleash my creativity, this time perfectly _Taylored _to Duran and Duran only, especially during these times of such challenge and uncertainty. God bless you. 💖💖__
> 
> 6/4/20 Also, I just wanted to say that my heart really goes out to John. Even more so than it does usually. The world is a strange and scary place at times, it’s weird to think that these people, the ‘icons’ are untouchable... I’m more than relieved to know he’s recovered and itching to be back on stage. Lots of love to him. 🥰❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Photoshoots were fun. But the after party was even better.

**Prompt Day 1:** Fave Pairing

 **Pairing:** John/Roger

_1981_

_Sunset Strip, Los Angeles_

Stumbling in through the hotel room door, hand in hand, lips locked and tongues swirling, they rutted up against each other. Sucking every breath, panting wild.

John was first to break away, a naughty little smile painting that naughty little face as he slid to close the blinds, bidding farewell to _Sunset Strip_.

Roger cocked an eyebrow, running a hand through the perfectly good quiff that John had so thoroughly ruined. He giggled as John pretty much strutted back to him, cocking his hips, overly parading his way through the small space.

John had a hand on his dusty blue blazer. Teasingly, he began to finger it, the button holes, stripping it beat by beat: a sultry sound rolling off of his tongue, the types from the musicals. The classic old ones, from the forties and fifties, when the woman would make her entrance: more than ready to steal the show.

John stole a quick kiss before throwing himself into the mattress, smirking as it took his weight.

Roger began to crawl on top of him but was stopped, silenced, by a calloused finger pushing him away.

“Oh?” He questioned, pouting.

John giggled again, pushing himself up on his elbows. He didn’t have to say much more, smile bigger than anything Roger had ever seen from him. His eyes were coated with something, not just lust, a new found excitement and cheekiness that they both knew Roger couldn’t mistake.

“And what was on at the theatre, Rog?” John posed, bringing a hand up and forcing an overly quizzical expression onto his face.

Roger rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what was on at the _Adonis_ that night, not that they saw it.

They had posed for photographs in front of the sign which, to John, sounded much more appealing than a stuffy show he had no business being at.

“The A-cad-e-my” John teased, stretching it out and making Roger shiver with the way he shuffled further up on the bed, leather ‘swishing’ noisily as John wiggled his little butt.

John had a hand on his ruby red sash. He flung it off and whipped it, whipping it into Roger’s direction as though he wanted to trap him with it. Lure him in closer, keep him close.

“Starring… who was it starring, Johnny?” Roger smiled, a hand running dangerously down the straining leathers he wore.

John gulped audibly, eyes widening as Roger’s deft fingers… settled in his belt loops. John let out a shaky breath.

“ _Roger_.”

“Yes, it was starring Roger. Wasn’t it?”

John licked his lips.

Neither Taylor had any clue as to what the show was about. All that they knew was that they would be writing their own script tonight, performing it any which way they wanted. Re-writes and all. Perfectly imperfect, improvised.

“What do you want me to do, John?” Roger knew exactly but he wanted to hear it.

John’s cheeks coloured darker, suddenly so unsure of himself. With his confidence bleeding away, he bit into his lip as he mulled the words over.

“John?” Roger whipped off his stripy shirt, baring his beautiful muscles and gorgeously tanned skin, “what do _you_ want from _me?_ ”

Swallowing audibly, breaking out into a hasty sweat, John groaned. “A _show_. Perform for me, Roger.”

With a cheeky grin, “but there’s no drum kit in here, what ever will I do instead Johnny?”

John’s lip began to bleed, he licked it away. He shuffled again on the bed, coughing, a warmth was pooling in his stomach and he was already aching for friction. For anything. For Roger.

“ _Dance_ for me.”

A jet black eyebrow shot up.

“Take it off, please.”

Two chocolate browns rolled in their sockets.

Roger was cool and calculated about it. It was a nice change of pace, he was just so much more confident in himself when he was with John. His musical partner, his other half, he was more content and wanting to shine. He would be showing himself to John, in any way that he can.

John began to hum, a misty show tune that screamed ‘take it off’ but in a saucy, minxy way.

It went without saying that Roger had impeccable timing, the perfect rhythm. He would never miss a beat, be it behind a kit or not. Roger was glowing, hips swaying as he slowly and teasingly shed the luxe leather that was practically painted to his gleaming skin. John’s mouth was watering, he was flush under the collar.

Their eyes locked, the gaze was fierce and intense. Burning John up, he could feel it.

Without word, John didn’t have the strength to remove it, he sent a hand straight down, to creep back under his white fishnet shirt and began massaging his chest. He shivered bodily, feeling his nipples harden under a single touch.

Two deft fingers caught his black waistband, delving deeper into the strain beneath. John whined, panting and sweating, swiping it from his forehead. Roger, the little bugger, slowly licked at his own lips, hands plummeting lower on himself; precisely where John couldn’t wait to go.

The boxers were flung to the floor and before John had a chance to breathe, still clothed, Roger had crawled on top of him and was straddling him. Heated gaze locked firmly on the flush of his face. His hungry eyes, his moist and inviting lips.

John felt Roger’s heat and decided that yes, he can go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this baby Duran photo, really starring ‘Roger.’ 😉
> 
> https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/613772194699460608/bradelterman-early-brad-elterman-duran-duran


	2. The Geordie Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Melody Maker _sure as hell had its moments but, there was no way he belonged here. Too cutesy, too many fags watching and loving it.__

Prompt Day 2: Early Days

  
_1980_

_Rum Runner, Birmingham_

A cough, they all stopped their chatter and turned. He felt scrutinised, bare face growing even paler as he was sized up by heavily lined eyes, ruby lips and plum blusher. At least the one on the end, raven black hair styled into a quiff, seemed less fussed about his appearance. Less of a fruit.

He strutted forward, guitar on his back. He wore shredded jeans and a loose black tank, although it was pouring outside, the man was from up north. The Geordie cold didn’t phase him and neither would this Brummie bullshit. Black Country bullshit, whatever.

The adrenaline, knowing he was about to knock their socks off, kept him warm. Kept him motivated.

Nothing could phase him, if he was honest. Which he was, laying his case down to unveil his prized six string. Her smooth curves, the gorgeous lacquer that coated her sent jolts of excitement through him, rushing through his drug aching veins. (Which reminded him, speed was tonight’s treat!)

He grinned inwardly, upon seeing a sudden quirk of what were surely lanky shoulders, the broadening of shielded eyes even through a thick black fringe, upon flaunting his most prized possession. Undoubtedly this tart had a thing for his guitar. _Maybe he was another guitarist?_ The callouses of his fingers and pretty non existent muscle on his biceps screamed that from afar, even hidden under the flowery stuff he wore.

He had finally gotten his grubby little mits on a guitar at aged eleven, although he had one at aged five. It was plastic at the time.

The smallest of the bunch, sat in the middle of the three, was striking in both an intriguing and obnoxious way. He wore the most ruffles between them, some softy-flowy fabric that surely no man who wore blue jeans with pride could even name. He was the biggest poofter of them all, it went without saying, with gaudy bright red lips and shaggy brown hair that was somehow so perfectly combed and styled. He had style, it was weird and campy but intriguing. Goddamn but was it intriguing.

With a smirk, with a cheeky glint of pride, he wagged his eyebrows once; big and bold, before swinging his beloved guitar around his shoulders.

He strutted forward, chains on his hips jingling, clutching at his sunglasses. He whipped them on, not to disguise himself but so he could keep proper watch on the three fags before him: see their wondering eyes which were far more important than his own.

He stuck out like a sore thumb in the sleazy joint, no way near fairy-like enough. But oh well, _wankers be damned_ , he thought as he clutched the mic. Holding their lyric sheet in one hand, rolling his eyes reading the title, he was instructed to do as he so pleased with the verses and keep the chorus the same.

**_Girls On Film, they look better._ **

****

**_Girls On Film, always smile._ **

_What the actual hell was this rubbish?_ He groaned inwardly, perfect voice still rattling off the lyrics perfectly. Killer voice being wasted on this flouncy shit.

He was getting into it though he was desperate to run his talented fingers all over his beloved, really bring the place down in his flames. His _thunder_.

They were floored. Enrapt. Enamoured. Jaws dropped and heavily lined eyes widened. The guy on the end, the fifties kid who also didn’t really look like he should be there, was drumming on his knee. In perfect time, boy could he hold a tempo.

He kept going, rattling off the stupid lyrics that he was starting to grow fond of. He didn’t know why, perhaps it was just the simplicity of them. The simplicity of the images they portrayed. All the beautiful women holding hands across the bridge at midnight. He was totally lost in his own sensation.

He hadn’t even begun to show them what he could do, would do, yet.

**_Girls On Film, they look better._ **

****

_Wasn’t there supposed to be a singer?_

**_Girls On Film, always smile._ **

_Oh yeah, he was ‘ill.’ Bollocks, they had none._

Well, he wasn’t exactly opposed to being up front and centre. It was just that, he would much rather be shredding his six strings and blowing the thousands away with that. It was where he belonged, fingers running in a wild frenzy, faster and more skilled than most.

Still reeling from his performance high, sweating and eyes beaming behind his sunglasses, he awaited anxiously what they had to say. Awaited patiently, quaking in his leather boots, for the three nerds to pick their jaws up off of the gritty floor and to join him in the midst of the thick, the disco lights and all.

He needed to hear them too, he supposed. Give them the chance to floor him and reel him in. Hook, line and sinker.

He was in. That went without saying. _Melody Maker_ had its moments but little did anyone know, Andy included, just how special that request was.

_Wait, hold up. How many Taylors?_

Little did anyone know just how much of a perfect fit he was. _Duran Duran,_ _whatever they hell that floaty name meant_ , needed him and he was here to stay.

The Geordie Invasion, indeed


	3. Face To Face In Secret Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name’s Taylor. Nigel Taylor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you’ve seen this before. I have far too many chapters and stories based off of lyrics and my creativity is a short fuse right now.

**Prompt Day 3: Favourite Song**

The entire operation was a complete mess, in shambles. The ideas had flown in from far and wide and were to be ripped apart by two duelling sides: East versus West, Soviet Union versus the United States.

The British versus everyone.

Plus they unfortunately had a target asset, who would be set ablaze in the midst of the flame. From both sides.

There were always complex strands, multiple narratives: twists and turns; fallbacks; failing those who are destined for the win and plots blowing up in the unsuspecting audience in these sorts of stories.

The binary opposition between the bad and the good; heaven and hell. Hero and villain. Those who would be saving the world from inevitable danger, martini in hand and _Walther PPK_ in the other; versus those who would take a bullet through the head, whilst tied down, held underwater, strapped to a moving train, battered and bruised: if they let any precious, classified detail slip past the blood in their mouth. If that person let anyone down, their life would be worthless, hanging in the balance.

They would be falling victim to their own sides said ‘flawless’ regime.

They were on two teams, polar opposites. One dressed in drab, black, heavy trench coats and sunglasses, fingerless gloves and sleeves rolled high. Dripping in sex, dripping in danger. Their demise was _a dust cloud on the rise_ , whether they liked it or not.

The other team were dressed in fancy trench coats in a luscious cream. Their colours were striking, a classic pinstripe, showing their stance. Their good nature, a wholesome heart that will fall onto the wrong side of the tracks.

He had a role to play, supposedly, suited and stylish. Clothes as dark as the night and far too revealing. Trying to hide in multiple layers, thankful that it was fashionable, his body should be somewhat concealed. A mystery, an enigma as to what lies underneath.

  
A stench of doubt in the air, a danger that loomed about them both. All but dooming them from the start, it was just written that way.

Civilians taking a leisurely stroll up the monument would be targeted, obliteration on ones mind as the gunshots flung back to the innocent: in a poor man’s attempt to destroy the target asset. The stowaway, the biggest threat.

The bullets would ricochet back to John, it was just written that way. In the script, sure, yet it didn’t stop the stars alignment to target the poor Gemini: blazer clad and stomach out. Wind tousled hair a mess, tiredness in his eyes. He’d be playing it cool, from the dark side, dancing into the fire of those of _Arcadia_. The good, heaven sent agency to destroy _The_ _Power Station_ from within: By taking out its two leading members.

John was more than convinced that he was the first unholy kill. The first casualty would have the most tremendous of deaths: the budgets were still high and the creativity was still flowing; the deaths would wain as the totals increased beyond control.

John would be met by Simon, with _A View To A Kill,_ indeed.


	4. I Just Can’t Help Myself, Johnny!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big Thing Simon’s hot and John’s bass is heavy. You know exactly what _this _is.__

**Prompt Day 4:** Onstage Antics

 **Pairing:** John/Simon

_1988_

The air was thick, riddled with the smoke that swept the stage. It was dark, murky, save for the blinding lights that cast the auditorium in a dirty blue. It was low light, scandalous and suggestive, perfect for the erotic hit that they smashed out.

Wiggling his hips, cocking his brow, he couldn’t help himself. He’d be getting his Johnny, getting it on with him downright dirty. In front of the thousands of nameless faces, in secret places. Feeling anything but the chill.

He sauntered over, being lured in by the flop of that fringe that did nothing to hide the desire (Simon knew it wasn’t just desire) coating his big, brown chocolate eyes. The sway of his hips, right trousers covered in sequins, body bobbing up and down; feeling the grove.

Simon liked it hot, with some sweat and the heat was most definitely _on,_ John!

He strutted, ramping up the crowd as he did so. He stuck out, Stoke the spotlight; blaring neon green jacket keeping him seen. His flame was burning, brighter than the leather jacket that covered his sweat slick chest, the fishnet tank clinging to him.

John bobbed, the way he always did with his bass baby in hand, over to his front man. Lured in by that spark, igniting bond after bond in them again. He was caught in the trance, his raving neon light. John was the moth and boy was he horny for Simon’s flame.

Whipping his hair out of his eyes, hamming it up more and more, the crowd were driven into a frenzy as the singer got closer. As the bassist dared to approach him. As Simon slid to his right. As John sidled up on his side.

They got in so close, no space between them, no gaps for air to slip through and keep them apart. John moulded his lanky body into Simon, grinding up against him to feel every inch; rebel in every lump and bump of fabric.

Every bead of sweat, John felt it. Every hasty breath, John felt it. Every whip of hair, every moan… John _lived_ it.

Simon was pushing back into him, sharing the mic and belting out loud. The lyrics dropped, filthy. The auditorium raved, sinful. John got even closer, bringing a bony arm up to Simon, grabbing him, teasing him. Keeping him close.

They bobbed and swayed in time. Simon’s hips slamming backwards as John’s own buckled forwards. Simon was moaning, hissing, driving himself and John further into their own dazed madness.

John was clutching at his hair, then running his hand through Simon’s locks to give them a small tug.

Their noses were inches apart. They shared every breath, every whisper, every beat. Without hesitation, John’s pesky hands descended lower and lower. Straight down Simon’s front as he ground back into John, hips flush and pelvis cocked. John kept his hand there, searching for that sweet spot. Delving deep into Simon’s fishnet vest, teasing fingers prying at the thin fabric.

Lost beneath the green, John’s wandering fingers found their destination. They poked and prodded, then massages at Simon’s pec, adding sweat to sweat; burning them both up.

Simon kept it going, buckling backwards into John. He did nothing to bat his wondering hands away, sending his own back to clutch at John’s sequin clad butt.

John moaned and it was amplified all over, he thrusted forward and Simon did the same. Their lustful teasing wasn’t just a sight for the crowd, nor a show for the band. This was normal, this was perfect. Feeling John’s heat and deciding that hell _yes_ : Simon can go on.


	5. What’s Your Name? What Do You Like?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who even was he, staring down his pasty skin against the harsh red and black that coated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the 1979 Duran demo: _Working The Steel _with baba Nigel.__  
>  _  
>  _Photoshoot inspired by John’s iconic new romantic ruby red hair and military jacket Polaroid’s. You know the ones, the classic fresh out of the womb Durans._  
> _

**Prompt Day 5:** Nigel Becoming John

_  
1981_

Hunching over, shoulders quaking, he tipped his head and startled at what he saw. Or, what he couldn’t see.

The image was blurry, distorted, yet he didn’t have his crude eyesight to blame. He couldn’t understand what he saw; put two and two and together and decipher what was stood before him. Or whom.

“Your name is…”

Fingers quivering, he ran a shaky hand through his hair; pushing up the gel in it, losing his grip on the teased ends. It was blaring red, far from the murky black he would hide behind. The colour red connoted danger, a spotlight stealer, a heart breaker and a hopeless romantic. Or, too many mixed signals.

“Your name, ahem, is…”

He dropped it, ruby stain painting the cream dresser as opposed to his bottom lip. Cursing, he dropped to his bony knees to try and retrieve it. It wasn’t exactly a new entity nor a new demon just… something special. Or, the token to creating his iconic look.

“Your… Your name… is…”

Running a calloused finger over his eyes, he smeared the black that coated them. He fumbled over his lashes, having poked his already good for nothing irises and painting the tops of his cheeks with the fallout. He dusted them rouge, sweating, before wiping it all away. He dusted them again, frustrated, in circular motions this times. To define his cheeks. Or, to flash his not so secretive feminine side.

“Your name… name…”

Shucking on his jacket, the ropes that covered the shoulders whacked him in the face. Grimacing, he noted the small blob of red that now painting the golden tassels. Then he smiled, only small, running a string beaten finger down the silken lapels. He had never worn something so grand, so elaborate yet so him. But who? Which him?The fabric was delicate with an edge, the black was screaming that edge. Heightened by the red in his hair. Softened by the red in his angular face, the red in his pout.

Engulfing a deep and shaky breath, he swung his gaze to one side and bit into his bottom lip. Gnawing are them, he bought two jittering hands back up to his face, to his glasses. The frames were his security, his shield. They were everything he had ever known, from Primary School straight through his very few days at the Polytechnic. The thick rimmed frames widened his gaze, nerding him out.

They had to go.

He fumbled over the contacts, puzzling on what to do with them. They were uncomfortable, a struggle, he winced and hissed as he slid one in. With a small squeak, the second was fixed into place. He immediately clutched at his head, doubling over, shaking it. Slamming his fists on the dresser, he forced his gaze back up. Forced his way into the glass, looking back at him. No longer laughing at the stork that barely fit the frame.

“Your name… is.”

He exhaled a final breath, sucking in his cheeks and forming a fully facial contorting pout. Full of seduction, tinted lips radiating a sudden intimidation. A sudden feel, a crave to act in such a way.

Swallowing deep, ruffling his ruby locks a final time, he clutched at his lapels and tossed his head back. He didn’t look down to his glasses, they were gone, history. He kept his heavily lined gaze forward, assertive and piercing, running all over his jacketed frame.

“Your name is _John_.”


	6. Sweating Dewdrops Glisten, Fresh In Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three lonesome, yet powerful women. One controlling _The Chauffeur _, the other ashamed to be meeting her.  
> _  
>  _The third, dances the way women would for SS guards: nude, in a uniform scarily resembling the likes of a Chauffeur style._  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extracts taken from a media class project I completed, in which I had to ‘educate’ my teacher on an unseen text that I love to no end. Of course, _The Chauffeur _immediately sprang to mind.__  
>  __  
>  _So, here is a fairly edited look into the concepts behind the video and descriptions of the gorgeous models featured: as opposed to all the analysis that was once alongside this work._  
> 

**Prompt Day 6:** Rio Era

_When the sun drips down, bedding heavy behind._

Each model featured has her beauty highlighted in a different way, portraying a different persona. The glamour model, in the backseat of the _Rolls Royce_ , wears a tight corset and stockings; connoting a subtle elegance of a by gone era.

Her hair is swept back out of her face, styled into a neat low bun, she is the perfect embodiment of Laura Mulvey's male gaze. This is taken to a whole new extreme through a more subtle depiction of sexuality and beauty. Not only does she radiate a sophisticated nature, she also adopts a neutral facial expression; stripping her back and allowing for a sense of dominance to take over. The model never addresses the camera, always looking forward to _The Chauffeur_ upfront, caught in a trance of her own.

She is sensual, overly sexualised through her little clothing, long limbs on show. She has poise and grace, a perfect summation of the classic female stereotype, embodying forties and fifties icons from the likes of _Bette Davis_ and _Rita Hayworth_ with her poise and sophistication.

Her whole aura screams mystify and intrigue, which can be demonstrated through her deft hand movements and wandering eyes. Her lace gloves add to her sensuality, as a more muted take on an erotic look.

Although there is little chance for any character development, perhaps no need, this model still holds her own. She rides in the _Rolls Royce_ alone, with a clear power over _The Chauffeur._ There is a classic level of subservience, naturally the driver follows her orders and takes her where she so desires. 

_The front of your dress, all shadowy lined._

Laying atop of a pristine white bed, in a bedroom with high ceilings and fancy drapery, a second model is perched. Her body language suggests she is not very open, at first, laying on her side with a hand on her breast. Or heart, dripping down in perfect sync with the bass, drawing her audience into her smooth curves and shapely figure.

Dressed in a sheer, fishnet bodysuit, this model is on perfect display. To portray a woman’s sensuality, through Mulvey’s male gaze, this model also has subtle makeup and swept back hair; although her eyeliner is more striking. She embodies a classic fifties vibe through her dramatic wing, through her dramatic costume change into even less clothing.

Her lingerie set is full of lace, overly sensual and erotic. The model has a poise about her, with close ups on her gloved hands as she inches up her stockings. She is a fetish icon, undertaking stereotypical mannerisms of forties and fifties stars.

She powders her face, running her smooth hands over her exposed collar bones, adding extra emphasis to her beautifully clean skin. She admires her figure in the mirror, content with her body, however this model doesn’t radiate confidence. She quickly grabs her trench coat, adding to an already mysterious aura, shoving her hands deep in the pockets. The coat is boxy, the likes worn in _Casablanca_ , hiding her heavenly figure and scandalous lingerie.

She is feminine enough to parade through the murky streets of downtown London at night in her heels, basking in the shadows. This could even suggest that she is ashamed of herself, where she is going and who she will meet; further heightened by the unsure looks that caress her face upon meeting her partner.

Although this doubt in itself is brief, her heavily lined gaze immediately becomes heated again and back to the fetish object she becomes. Initially she is weaker, having her trench coat stripped from her and is seen to be following silent orders.

_And the droning engine throbs in time, with your beating heart._


	7. We Fade To Black (No Grey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. _Goth. _Nick!__

**Prompt Day 7:** Nick In Makeup

 **Pairing:** Nick/Roger/Simon

_1985_

“Oh.”

Nick took a seat beside them.

“My.”

He swept a lock of hair from his face.

“ _Goth_.”

He smiled, baby pink lips quirking upwards.

“Well put, Charlie,” Roger stated, eyeing Nick.

“What the bloody hell is all _this_?!” Simon’s eyes were wide, his jaw comically dropping to the floor.

Nick just rolled his heavily lined gaze; smokey eyes flashing.

Both Simon and Roger visibly shrunk away at that.

“Your eyes!” Simon gaped, “the white!”

“The _white_?” Nick looked puzzled.

“When you, uh, rolled them. That was a little…”

“ _Uncomfortable_.” Simon finished Roger’s sentence for him.

Nick just rolled them again, slower and much more thorough the second time.

Roger shivered and Simon turned away.

“Charlie—”

“—What!” Simon was shuffling closer to Roger, further from the not so blonde demon before him.

“You don’t have to be… scared.” Nick’s voice was low, tinged with giggles.

“ _Scared_? I’m not, Christ Nick, I’m not…”

Silence.

“I’m petrified! You look ridiculous!”

Both Simon and Roger broke out into laughing fits, Simon clutching tight at his chest.

“Why did you…” Simon couldn’t control his laughter. “Shit.. Nick, why-y-y-y, why why, why-y-y-y did you do, take it Rog!”

“Uh, _yeah_?”

“No, _that_!”

Roger eyed him.

“Oh okay? That.”

Nick narrowed his eyes, the hazel was thoroughly lost amongst the heavy black.

Both Simon and Roger shivered again.

“Nick,” Roger coughed out, “you won’t… you’re not going to… make _us_ , uh.” He trailed off, turning away.

“No, no,” Nick caught him on his bluff, shuffling over to the drummer on his knees, “I know you’re not comfortable with so much makeup Rog, you don’t have to do a thing that you don’t want too. Okay?”

Nick laid out a gloved hand, placing it on Roger’s jacketed shoulder. He stiffened, gaze falling to it.

He nodded, eyes dropping to the hands in his lap.

“And Charlie.”

Simon threw his head up.

“Yeeeess, Prince of Darkness.”

“Shut it. You can wear as little or as much as you’d like, I believe the blonde mop should go though.”

Simon’s mouth dropped open, overly theatrical and full of feigned hurt.

“Not my prized blonde! Oh, how do you dare?!” He whined, hand on his chest and turning away; desperate to provoke a laugh from Roger.

He got nothing.

Rolling his baby blue eyes, he grumbled. “Step _onto_ my fudging fla-ame.”

“I think Nick is right, Charlie, if he’s really going all black I think you should too.” Roger began, finding his voice. “And besides, maybe it’ll suit you. Like it did in ’81.”

“You did look wonderful with the brown, Charlie.”

Simon considered.

“Curse you Rog, voice of reason!” Simon wailed, somehow still laughing. “Fine, why the hell not?”

“I knew that you would come around, Charlie. No leopard skin.”

“Aww, Nicky!” Simon groaned.

Nick barked out a laugh.

“I’m not raiding Boy George’s make-up stash though.” Simon joked, now running his hand through Nick’s heavy hair.

“You bloody well better not, there’s no place for all that _colour_ here.”

“So, black and only black?” Roger posed, sounding oddly hopeful.

“It’s your favourite isn’t it, see Nick, _he’s_ got it easy!” Simon barked, knocking Roger’s shoulder as he said it. “Some of us like to have a little rainbow in the cupboard!”

“You can say that again,” Roger muttered.

Simon gaped, turning to him.

“Oi!”

“You’ve always rocked the black though, Charlie.” Nick’s voice had dropped, low and suggestive. “The fans will… _love_ it.”

Simon flashed him a look.

“You really think so?”

“I know so and besides, nothing is permanent, you can always dye it again!” Nick reminded him.

With a little giggle, Simon’s gaze flickered between the keyboardist and drummer, both smiling.

“Eyebrows too?”

“Why not.”

Although Nick’s heavily made up face still scared the living daylights out of them both for a couple months, Simon dying his hair was really working _wonders_ for all three of them.

Nick only prayed that he had kept his mullet, so he had more hair to grab onto…


	8. A Hug And A Kiss Is What I’ll Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop those tears for him, Andy!

Prompt Day 8: Cuddling After A Show

Pairing: John/Andy

_August 28th 1985_

_End Of Power Station Tour_

“The crowd, they were fuckin’ wild!”

“God, I’ve missed it Johnny, really missed it.”

“That’s the _power_ man, the power we’ve still got!”

“Legit thought you were gonna say the _power_ to our _station_ there, mate.”

“Could’ve.. you know?”

“But ya didn’t, thankfully.”

“Ands?”

“Yeah, John?”

“Do you think, uh, when the… when the tour is over that, that Duran.. no, that we’ll…”

“Still have a crowd as mad as _that?_ ”

“… Yeah.”

“You know what, JT.”

“Yeah, Ands?”

“No fuckin’ idea. I don’t think so, sorry.”

“Yeah, I think that too. Shit, _when_ did we… you know, uh, when did we—”

“— _Lose_ it?”

“… Yeah.”

“… Fuck it, you know what Johnny? Don’t even think about ‘em now, ride out the high of the show. Don’t _crash_ on me now, _Jet Set!_ ”

“I.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. Fuck!”

“Don’t crash John.”

“These tears… why am I even?”

“Cuz you’re a wuss?”

“Thanks, man.”

“A pussy, who misses Nick too much to admit it?”

“That too. Shit. Why can’t I stop crying?!”

“It’s alright, let it out.”

“Can I, uh Ands, umm.. have a, shit, you know a…”

“A… _hug?_ ”

“Yes please.”

“Bring it in, you big baby!”

“Fuck off.”

“That feel nice? Shall I kiss you better too, John?”

“Only if you want it… wait, do you… _want_ it?”

“Are you gonna remember this in the mornin’?”

“Uh.”

“No you won’t.”

“Uh.”

“What are ya on?”

“What am I always on?”

“Fuck, man.”

“Just _kiss_ me, you slippery sod!”

“…There, happy now?”

“Yeah!”

“You have real beautiful lips, Johnny.”

“Ha, and?”

“Will you remember this in the mornin’?”

“I haven’t done a single thing. I’ll _remember_.”

“You… shit, havent?!”

“No, Ands. I haven’t _done_ anything.”

“Good, keep it that way.”

“Kiss me again.”

“You got it, John.


	9. Shot Right Through With A Bolt With Of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John totally made the right call. He always did, when it came to hair!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from New Order’s _Bizarre Love Triangle _who I haven’t heard in so damn long that I need too right now.__

**Prompt Day 9:** Dyeing Each Other’s Hair

 **Pairing:** John/Andy

_February 1985_

“I can’t believe I let ya talk me into this.”

“It’s because you _love_ me, okay!”

“Suck my cock, John.”

There was a suggestive little giggle erupting from behind him. “I’ll do _way_ more than just… suck…”

“Course you will.” He rolled his eyes, careful of the falling dye as John’s clumsy hands spread it further.

“It’ll kick ass for the shoot, trust me man.”

“I’m doin’ way friggin’ more than that right now!” Andy huffed out.

“It’ll be fine, Ands! You’ll _rock_ the blue like you rock my world.”

“Ya what?” Andy refrained from craning his neck.

John’s hands were spreading the dye all over. In random streaks, up and down, he manoeuvred the brush with a surprising and questionable skill. _Turns out the fuckin’ fairy in him is good for some shit after all._ Not that he needed to hear that out loud from Andy.

“You rock my world, is what I said.”

Andy nodded his understanding. “Sorry, it’s ‘ard to hear ya right now. With the foil.”

John began tearing more strips. Carefully he rolled them, right over where he had added another colour: mixing well with Andy’s already dark and striking waves.

“That’s sweet though, Johnny. I’d kiss ya if all this crap wasn’t dangling before me!”

Giggles erupted at Andy’s back again.

“It’s okay babe, keep your eyes forward!”

John took his time, skilled hands working tirelessly to get this right. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself, nor would Andy let it go lightly, if he messed this up for him.

Another twenty minutes or so and the packet had been worn thin. As had the roll of kitchen foil that John still wasn’t sure he was meant to have used but Andy, nor his inner hairdresser, hadn’t piped up about it.

It had been a while since John had been trusted with hair dye anyway but that was a story for another time.

(There were reasons as to why Nick had resembled a fluffy, little carrot taking a cruise in 1982)

“Kay, take it _easy_ now.”

Andy, now looking about ready to send satellites out of orbit and crashing back to planet earth with his mental guitar solo signals, carefully rose to his feet. John helped him, knowing from the slump in his shoulders that it was all pretty heavy up top.

They waited a while, laughing and chatting about whatever the hell. John sat before Andy, bass baby in hand, and together they worked out his perfect accompaniment to _She’s Still In Your Heart._ John had been struggling with it for a little while now but as soon as he saw Andy’s pale eyes light up when he ran his fingers up those strings: he knew he had it right.

Then came the fun part. Getting the damn foil off of Andy so he could wash his hair.

They both tugged and tugged, John getting pretty messy at his back. Andy’s hands were more gentle, though he was being shoved about a little by the bassist.

“Oi! Watch it!”

“Sorry! Just… _hold_ it!”

“You better not get any of this crap down ma back, JT.”

“Nah, we good!” John had surprised himself.

Carefully, he slipped the foil into the now over flowing bin and shuffled aside; letting Andy head to the bathtub.

“I’d just love to be in there, you know, with you.” John’s voice was hesitant, suggestive and hesitant.

Clutching tight to his dressing gown that had already been slightly ruined by the runaway blue, Andy rolled his eyes and smirked.

“Lemme wash this shit out first and then, if I like it…”

“You’ll _reward_ me?” John’s voice had grown oddly shy.

“Asshole.” Andy scoffed, running his gaze over John as he shuffled away. “Tigger, sure.”

* * *

Needless to say that Andy absolutely loved the striking streaks of cobalt that John had inked into his hair. They stood out exceptionally well in the _Power Station_ photoshoots and videos.

Oh and, of course, John was rewarded in a _big_ way.


	10. I Didn’t Mean To Hurt You, I’m Just A Jealous Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Cue Bryan Ferry...

**Prompt Day 10:** Getting Jealous

 **Pairing:** John/Simon

_1986_

“Will you please stop bloody _yelling?_ It’s not like the whole street can’t hear you, John!”

Simon was face to face with a panting, disheveled bassist at nearing 3 AM. Doused in moonlight, dreary shadows defined, he didn’t like what he saw.

“What’s even with you tonight? What are you on?” The singer ground out, rolling his eyes as of course he already knew the answer.

The bassist stumbled out something flimsy that dodged his question, fumbling about the apartment before slumping into a chair.

“John, c’mon. What the hell has gotten—”

“—I can’t take it anymore, alright?! I can’t bloody _take_ it!” John screeched, red in the face as the tears began to roll.

There was a pause. A chance to breathe.

“Take what, John?”

John buried his head in his hands, running them through the blonde in his shaggy mullet.

There was a muffled reply, a couple sniffs. A hasty hand wiping at tears. A frustrated whine.

“John, baby, just _talk_ to me. Please!”

The bassist sprang back into action. “Don’t fuckin’ ‘ _baby’_ me, you sod.”

Simon’s jaw hit the floor.

Before either man could comprehend it, John was stuttering out his words, screaming the place down with it. His tears kept their flow; so he sniffled and coughed throughout making it even harder for Simon to hear.

What little he did hear, the little that actually made _sense_ : was about her.

Of course it was, how could Simon not have thought of it sooner? He blamed the sun that was about to rise and how some members of this band needed sleep in order to function.

Not some powdered help.

John kept up the screaming match, about ready to flip the table. Simon stopped him just in time.

“This has _nothing_ to do with her, you know that!” The singer’s patience was running thin, more than ready to flip the table himself.

“Y-yes, it fuckin’ does! It’s _her_ or _me_ Charlie, I can’t freaking stand having her around!”

“Why are you bringing all this up crap now? You weren’t even here for Christ’s sake.”

The words ‘you and Ands’ went unspoken. John felt his shoulders prick.

Simon covered his ears.

John kept on yelling, stumbling through his own rant and was thoroughly pink in the face. He was shaking, far too obvious, still tasting salt.

“Fuckin’ tell me ya still want _me_ , alright! That it’s me or her, Charlie; I’m not gonna hang on any longer.” He screeched.

“John.”

“ _What!_ ” He spat, rubbing at his nose.

“You’re such a little shit at times, you know that?”

“...Point being?” 

Simon plopped himself down on the chair that had just about avoided the bassist’s wrath, motioning for him to sit and take a breather.

“It’s been six fucking _years_ , man. Please don’t leave me now!” John whined, burying his face in his sleeve as he said it.

“John.”

“Just _choose_ already!”

“John.”

The man in question threw his head up, flush with far more than just embarrassment.

“John, just _listen_ to me. I love you, I love this band and there is nothing, no one, who will come between us again, okay? Not even Yasmin. Will you stop bloody shrieking?!”

John worried his bottom lip with his tongue.

“You,” he paused, biting into it, “l- _love_ me, still? Even after… yeah.”

The words ‘I left’ went unheard.

“Yes, you idiot Taylor!” Simon was more than ready to clap him round the back of that pretty head. “Who wouldn’t?!”

‘Renée’ also went unspoken.

“Whatever this is, whatever we have Johnny, it’s, it’s far more important. It’ll last, you know that!” Simon’s voice was growing more firm, balancing itself back out.

“…You, fuck, you really think so, Charlie?”

John’s bleary gaze landed on Simon, eye to eye.

Wordlessly, Simon short an arm forward and grasped John’s sweaty palm in his. He interweaved their fingers together, lacing them, pulling John in tight.

That seemed to steady him, more so than anything Simon could bring himself to say.

“I, God, God I _still_ love you Charlie.”

“You better.”

There was a little huff of laughter, a small smile.

“How are we gonna make this work?” John grated out, nervous gaze falling back to their fingers.

“We… we’ll find a way. Together. We always do.”

John nodded over and over, eyes never leaving their joined hands atop of the table.

“Will you.. ahem,” he coughed, mulling it over, “Charlie, will you—”

“— _Kiss_ me?” Simon finished it for him, a small smile crossing his beautifully plush lips.

John’s cheeks flushed darker.

Simon simply arose from his seat, bringing John up with him. His bottom lip was trembling again, the singer noted, his eyes were still glassy with tears. Without word, Simon leant in, full lips kissing the ticklish parts of right below John’s eyes. The tops of his cheeks. His forehead. His cute, little nose. And finally, finally their lips locked in a slow and thorough kiss.

“Now will you let me ruddy sleep?!” The singer pulled back with a chuckle.

A mask of something naughtier crept into John’s face, eyes darkening with it.

“Fine.” Simon groaned. “Sleep now, fun later.”

“Mmkay.”

“I mean it John, sleep.”

“Mmkay!”

John took his hand, taking a deep breath before following Simon down the hall.


	11. Lead Me On (To The Steps Behind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together they were climbing higher and higher, skin too hot to touch, to their oblivion. To their tiny death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what possessed me to write this but..
> 
> Title adapted from the Teena Marie track of the same name.

**Prompt Day 11:** Seven And The Ragged Tiger Era

_1983_

A quick scramble behind the scenes, lace confinement’s thrown away, he was straddled and pinned: dominating tongue in his mouth, rough hands in his hair.

John couldn’t help himself, desperate to fling the tie that was choking him far. He needed all the breath he could muster, to throughly please the babe who bobbed in his lap.

She was ruthless, painted lips running wild up his neck; nipping and sucking as he groaned in heady appreciation. His breath was hot, coming quick, with a desperate hand on her back, her perfect ass now grinding onto him and driving him into madness.

His knees buckled, brining her down with him. Now, they were a blur of black and red atop of the steps, him being blanketed by her lean form. Her eyes were wide, she was panting, grinding more forcefully down on him and moaning as he responded in kind. John thrusted upwards, right between her legs. He groaned again, the shockwaves pulsing through him were already far too much and he hadn’t even unzipped himself yet.

She did just that, a skilled hand peeling the delectable fabric away, before plunging in even further. With a smirk, a knowing roll of eyes, she had confirmed that yes: he was wearing nothing underneath.

Flushed, eyes sparkling, John smirked back. He wagged his eyebrows twice in quick succession and she moaned above him, taking his impressive length into her grip. Her strokes were forceful, rhythmic and in time, driving him further from reason and showing him who was boss.

Within moments she was dominating him again, he whined as she simply dropped him and already he was begging for another hot touch. Anywhere, on his aching skin.

She slipped open two of his top buttons, licking his clavicle, earning her a throaty groan from John.

She leant down, grabbing his heavenly gloved hands and settling them on her hips. She had whipped off her lace thong in a blur, John couldn’t even recall when. His gaze had widened comically, his jaw on the floor, as she had simply dangled them from one finger and he chased her. Desperate for a lick, a whiff, anything.

Clutching at those delectable red leather gloves, she guided his quivering hands back onto her; raising herself up slowly. With a grunt, with a whine, she impaled herself onto him: taking all those inches, bobbing in his lap.

His hips snapped, he was thrusting upwards with reckless abandon. Head resting on her sweaty chest, between her gorgeous and teasingly concealed breasts, he fucked into her slit deeper and deeper; changing his angle to slam right into her. Thrusts long and rhythmic, rapidly gaining in intensity.

Grabbing at her hair, grabbing at her thighs: she was moaning herself hoarse, a single name on her lips.

“ _John!_ ”

He flipped them in an instant, she was now on her back, being coated by his lanky frame. Leather rutting noisily between them, he swiftly entered her again, coaxing her lean legs around his back. They were kissing, stealing each other’s breath. Climbing higher and higher, skin too hot to touch, to their oblivion. To their tiny death.

John was panting and sweating like mad, blazer threatening to slip from him and leather sticking to his slender form. Her skin was flush, head thrown back in pleasure, clutching too him. All over, running her slick hands up and down his spine, losing purchase with the cotton he cursed himself for still wearing.

Within moments, John’s ears were ringing. The sound was shrill and he was seeing white, throughly losing herself in her slick. Everything was trembling, uncontrollably; from his white jazz shoes to the blazer falling from him. Thrusting erratically, hope jerking and spasming far beyond his control; John hoisted himself up further onto his quivering arms and fucker her deeper and deeper, filling her over and over, bringing her down with him.

Her orgasm was insane, inner walls clutching at contrasting around the member that still pulsed readily in between her spread legs. Together they milked each other dry, lips battling for dominance, shuddering and losing themselves in the lustful heat.

John collapsed onto her, breathing wild as he chuckled into her ear. He was immediately met with a huge, satisfied smile. A little giggle, a head thrown back in disbelief as to what they had just done.

He retreated, groaning, watching in awe at the slick that followed him out. She sighed, then shivered, eyes dark as she watched him hastily shove himself back into his ruined leather trousers.

John stole a final kiss, full of guilt and longing for more. She deserved the world, his full time and dedication. He could do much better, he wanted her the whole night. Sadly now he had to slip away: knowing that he would be needed back on set at any moment.

Those album photos wouldn’t take themselves but she, with a devilish glint in her eye, would be waiting. That went without saying, John could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the _delicious _and ever so dapper John from this photoshoot. 🥵🔥__  
>  _  
>  _https://madamepinkvelvet.tumblr.com/post/614946090595336192/diamondnthemind-duran-duran-satrt-tour-book_  
>  _It’s me btw, I’m the girl._  
> _


	12. Thirsty For Your Water, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When will he make it rain?

**Prompt Day 12:** Rare Pairing

 **Pairing:** John/Warren

_1990_

Warren, the absolute champ, didn’t miss a single beat as he kept strumming, fingers a dizzy blur across his strings, singing into the mic. He bobbed along time the beat, voice hitching, delivering perfect take after take. Straight to the album.

Warren, the absolute champ, didn’t miss a single beat as those clumsy fingers and lips teased further: running wild up and down his length.

The bassist was on his knees, hands now gripping to the backs of his muscles thighs. His lips were parted, swallowing precious breath after breath, before taking more of Warren down his throat. Cut cheeks hollowed, sweating, John sucked harder and harder and somehow; Warren just kept on going.

_Perhaps he’s holding on cuz we’re being watched?_

The man was mad, or something, perfectly calmed as he pushed maddeningly into John’s hot mouth. He had been there a while, own erection straining in his tight trousers, silently begging for Warren to make a rain so he could have those talented hands on himself; losing it immediately as soon as the guitarist made contact.

_Nah, the bastard loves an audience._

John was hidden in the darkened recording booth, so no fellow Duran’s could make out his only black hair as it bobbed teasingly low before the guitarist. John was getting a little thrill out of it all, knowing that his own desperate pants had to be expertly choked off.

Moans literally swallowed by Warren, _all_ of him.

Now, the synths for were playing and John felt something prick deep inside. He was shaking suddenly, hands jolting tight to Warren’s ass and he heard him hiss. He snapped his hips forward; shoving himself deeper into John’s elongated throat and the bassist grinned. Finally, a warning siren.

Thankfully Warren didn’t need to sing on this one, so he was biting into his bottom lip to stifle his moans and focus solely on his playing. John egged him on, sucking harder and faster. Little coke head (and hash) bobbing rapid between his legs, hands losing purchase on the leathers he wore.

Their session was up and John groaned in frustration, the gasped in horror of having surely ruined the take. He followed Warren out, crawling on his knees, as the guitarist expertly tucking himself back in and kept it all hidden behind his guitar.

As soon as they left the booth, diving out round the back, John was pulled up to his feet and shoved into a deserted corridor.

Basking in the murky shadows, he was pinned by Warren’s hands and hot lips. He was thrusting into John’s cut hips, panting before he shuddered; coating his pasty skin white.

Still reeling, Warren freed John and took him into his expert grip. He nipped and sucked at his throat, drawing lengthy whines from John whose head span and hips buckled in time.

Within moments he was coming in streams, torrents, dripping down onto his trousers and ruining Warren’s leathers further.

With haste, barely having any breath, they tucked themselves back in. Straightened collars. Faffed with hair. They acted as inconspicuous as they could, strutting down the hallway wiping away at the sweat and jizz that coated them.

John was smiling, full and hearty like the right twat he was, still slick hand brushing against Warren’s own. The guitarist gave him a final glance, crooking his finger, before sealing his lips onto John’s a final time.

The kiss was bruising, over far too quick. John’s head span catching sight of Warren, that naughty little glint in his eye, as he headed back into the studio: head held high.


	13. The Dancing Queen, Young And Sweet, Only Twenty-One!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Simon reminisce over early Duran videos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably more laughing at Nick then laughing with him but oh well.

**Prompt Day 13:** Banter

 **Pairing:** Simon/Nick

_1990_

_I light my torch and— that’s enough of that one, thank you!_

“You still really hate that one, don’tcha?”

“God Charlie, it was just so… so damn—”

“Awful?”

“Indeed.”

“It was a painful three days, Nick, I’ll admit to that.”

“Good. I can barely recall the third day.”

“Because you were drunk?”

“Because we, Charlie, _we_.”

“That too. But something good came out of that fricking shoot.”

“Excuse me? You found pleasure in all the cold, revolution, the French chick… why are you looking at me, like that? Charlie, _stop_ it!”

“Give Nicky a little tipple and he’ll drop it like it’s hot!”

“Oh God.”

“There was plenty of… extra… _dance_ footage, Bates.”

“You say ‘dance’…”

“I did. Which we, as a band, will continue _not_ to do. You really let rip though, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about, Charlie?”

“Aww now he’s blushing! Nicholas Bates can really shake that ass!”

“Shut it, Charlie.”

“I think not. I couldn’t even tell you how many copies of _that_ got made!”

“What?!”

“… been through John’s video collection recently?”

“Charlie!”

“What, it’s very entertaining and valuable footage!”

“How did you get it without me knowing for _seven years_?!”

“I have my ways.”

“There was a camera in the dressing room, wasn’t there?”

“… yes…”

“ _Bastard_.”

“Nick.”

“Yeah, Charlie.”

“You have a wonderful little butt that you should really shake more often!”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Alrighty, shake it till ya make it!”

“We already made it.”

“… oh yeah. Still shake it, _shake it_ Bates!”

“Goodbye; Charlie.”  
  
“Some Nick’s like it hot, with some sweat when; the heat is—”

“Shut the hell up!”

“... on!” 


	14. Goodbye Is Forever, Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a fun but scarily goth ride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have seen this already as I posted the whole thing in full on the eleventh. But as this fic was originally spurred from this prompt, I figured to hell with it: here’s an extract.

**Prompt Day 14:** Arcadia

 **Pairing:** Simon/Nick

Scrambling to their feet, they braved another heavy, wooden door. It’s knocker with gleaming gold, drawing them in to just tap it, nothing grand but a single tap would do. With a gulp, a sudden gust of air, they were both pushed into it: disappearing into a thick cloud, victim to their own temptation and need to explore.

He stood still, trembling as up he again went. His hands were bound, nice and tight, there was a smooth grip around his hips. He braced himself, head swirling, and he was swinging. The wind in his hair, not a single strand out of place, meant that the joy was radiating off of him. His pasty lips parted and bared his teeth, throwing his head back into it, smiling brighter than anything he had ever known he was able to do.

The man was back, now below him. He was being thrown side to side too fast to properly see but, he looked as though he was tied to something. Spinning around, hands and legs spread, head thrown back in elation. He was mounted to the ground, the white around him proving dizzy as the man struggled.

It was a clock, a pendulum. Swinging in perfect time as together they were bound to it, giggling like mad. Thrust deep into the childhood fantasy, he was thrown from his podium, straight to the next part of the ride.

They were soaring again, this time in front of a screen. Trying to crane his neck, met with a face full of stiff black hair, he could barely grasp what was playing. Lights were flashing as it skipped on the track, It the figure was blurred and distorted. He was talking, or something, mouth dropping open and those piercing eyes locked onto him. It was the man from before, riding with him, calling to him and beckoning him over; using his hands for extra emphasis.


	15. Hot, Wet And Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hot and wet band mates have a little teasing fun with come.

**Prompt Day 15:** Power Station 

**Pairing:** John/Michael

_August 1985_

_Power Station Tour_

What he didn’t bet on was waltzing his way into the apartment and having come to the realisation that he was late. Either he was running glaringly late or the apocalypse was imminent and John was running early.

John smirked to himself, he was some crazy how running early.

“Oi, you git!” He called, from the foyer. No answer. He tried again, then made his way to the staircase.

John, stumbling, was slinking around until he paused. He was cut short. He heard a dull hum coming from the bedroom. He rounded a corner, not at all quietly, but Michael was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, crackhead! We’ve got a _show_ to do.”

Then he heard it. The running water. John smirked to himself the thought was… promising, to say the least.

John shuffled up to the door and tried to keep quiet, having heard that voice again. He moaned low, the sound taught in his throat. John choked out a surprised gasp at himself, then pressed his ear to the door.

He was muted by the shower but still John could pretty much hear everything. The moans were growing in intensity, coming faster and faster. John fought with himself not to laugh and disrupt him, that would be dangerous… fun.

To hell with it, John slowly turned the door knob. He shook his fist in silent triumph that the door wasn’t locked, bangles jingling as he did so.

The bathroom was steamy, he strutted into the haze and caught sight of Michael, _all_ of Michael, through the thin pane of teasing glass. He had one hand up against the slick white tile wall and the other, well, John’s gaze was lost on those strokes: so fast and persistent. His blurry silhouette looked to be shaking, John was sure he was also thrusting into his hand by the turn of his cut hips.

It wasn’t like John didn’t know what that looked like. The miles of delicious golden tan skin was dripping wet, brown hair damp and splayed out into all different directions… _perfection_. Everything John could ever want in a man, so strong and dominating. Somebody who knew how to take care of him.

However, the only unknown variable here was turned away from him, hidden from John’s sight.

He crept closer and closer, dropping his satin jacket to the tile floor. His chiffon shirt followed as the steam was getting to him, light sweat coating his chest. He was a little light headed, when was he not, but the obscene sounds of the singer also very likely contributed to that.

At that moment John sucked in a breath for Michael had turned, a hand stroking himself. John, gaping like the little crackhead he was, could see everything. His eyes trailed down from Michael’s tipped back head and closed eyes, over his parted lips, down his defined pecs and stomach, the curve of his spine and… John moaned.

_Fuck_.

Michael snapped out of his daze, immediately releasing himself. He turned, creeping closer to the shower door. John couldn’t make out his expression or hear what he was saying. He was caught in a trance of sorts, eyes wide and lips parted, sweating like mad.

_Fuck it_.

He shimmied out of his leathers, trying not to come crashing to the floor before kicking them aside into the abandoned pile of clothing. Nothing was said as the shower door was flung open. John waited to be invited in, heart racing and head swirling. Michael was smirking, crowding the door frame, he didn’t budge. John had a hand on his boxers, they were soaked to his skin.

But what he did do had John’s dark eyes bulging out of their sockets, his jaw dropping to the floor in both shock and need. Michael grabbed his arm and bought it forward. Gasping, head cloudy, John stumbled in deeper into the swirling steam.

Taking the hint, John closed his fingers around Michael’s length and jerked him slow, in a loose embrace but Michael wasn’t having any of it. Two large and dripping wet hands clutched at John’s bare chest as he thrusted his cut hips forward, coaxing John to tighten his grip and jerk him harder. Michael was moaning and panting, shucking off John’s ruined boxers with his free hand. John was well aware of the distinct sheen of sweat was coating his own flush skin.

He bought Michael closer and closer until finally, writhing under his hand, Michael snapped. He yanked John fully into the shower stall, nude, alongside him and backed him into the wall. He shoved John to his knees and took a hold of himself again. He was fisting himself without restraint, the sound of slick fingers couldn’t drown out either man’s needy moans.

Michael froze. John held his breath.

He was coming, hands clutching desperately at the wall in front of him. His come coated John’s pasty face, raining down into his open mouth who readily caught the streams and, clawing at his thighs, John swallowed them.

Yanking John back up by the soggy mullet, he was pushed under the spray, slipping before he was caught by Michael with a laugh. His laugh was near breathless but it didn’t matter. The highs of orgasm were still singing through his veins as John yelped. Michael was on his knees, faster than light, hands on his hips pressing him into the wall.

Without word, only moans, Michael’s rough lips enveloped him.


	16. Let’s Get It On, Crockett!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Power Station have a guest spot on _Miami Vice. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I watched this a couple times and tried to formulate something resembling a transcript of it.

**Prompt Day 16:** Dialogue Only

* * *

**Miami Vice**

**Season 2, Episode 2:** “Whatever Works”

* * *

_Interior: Dive bar, struggling band, plenty of men in fancy suits and scantily clad women down for a fight._

_(Light chatter, **Crockett & Tubs** enter Stage Right to **Power Station** at bar)_

< _Action_!>

**Crockett** : Hey _JT!._.. John?

Johnson: Ahem, That’s your cue JT.

John: Huh? Oh.. oh right.

Michael: Relax man, just breathe.

John: ‘Tis easy fo’ you to say, actor man!

<CUT! Roll film…>

<Take Two… _Action_!>

**Crockett** : Hey _JT!_

_(Shaking hands, light chatter ensues)_

**JT** : Hey, what’s happenin’ chaps! Change of climate!

 _(Interjects)_ **Waiter** : What’s it gonna be?

 **Crockett** : Blackjack

 **Tubs** : Virgin Colada

John: You look… ah, shit,

<CUT!>

Johnson: Don’t worry man, try it again. _So relaxed._

John: Erm, yeah… thanks.

<Take Three… _Action_!>

**Crockett** : Hey _JT_!

_(Shaking hands, light chatter ensues)_

**JT** : Hey, What’s happenin’ chaps! Change of climate!

 _(Interjects)_ **Waiter** : What’s it gonna be?

 **Crockett** : Blackjack

 **Tubs** : Virgin Colada

_(Laughter dies down)_

**JT** : You look so relaxed!

 **Crockett** : Nothing ever changes, _JT!_

John: Well, that’s true.. no it’s not.. goddamnit!

<CUT!>

Michael: Come on man, focus!

John: I would if ya’d stop bloody laughin’ at me!

Andy: No one’s gonna stop laughin’ at that accent, Johnny.

John: Oi! Piss off.

Johnson: He’s got a point JT, you sound fake even for you!

John: Hey, rude!

Andy: Sayin’ it like it is, man.

John: Wanker.

<Take Three… _Action_!>

**Crockett** : Hey _JT!_

_(Shaking hands, light chatter ensues)_

**JT** : Hey, What’s happenin’ chaps! Change of climate!

 _(Interjects)_ **Waiter** : What’s it gonna be?

 **Crockett** : Blackjack

 **Tubs** : Virgin Colada

_(Laughter dies down)_

**JT** : You look so relaxed!

 **Crockett** : Nothing ever changes, _JT!_

 _(Nodding To **Michael** ) _**JT** : Well that’s not true! We just got a new singer. You never noticed the difference.

 **Crockett** : Hey buddy.

 **JT** : Stick.. you gonna stick around?

 **Crockett** : Yeah, John.. I’ll be here.

_( **Power Station** exit, Stage Right)_

John: Yeah, you better!

Andy: Jet Set shut it!

John: Oh, crap.

<CUT!>

Andy: Swear to god, man. You have like three lines, how many you done?

John:…

Andy: Exactly.

<Take Four… _Action_!>

**Crockett** : Hey _JT!_

_(Shaking hands, light chatter ensues)_

**JT** : Hey, What’s happenin’ chaps! Change of climate!

 _(Interjects)_ **Waiter** : What’s it gonna be?

 **Crockett** : Blackjack

 **Tubs** : Virgin Colada

_(Laughter dies down)_

**JT** : You look so relaxed!

 **Crockett** : Nothing ever changes, JT.

 _(Nodding to **Michael** )_ **JT** : Well that’s not true! We just got a new singer. You never noticed the difference.

 **Crockett** : Hey buddy.

 **JT** : You wanna stick around?

 **Crockett** : Yeah, I’ll be here.

<CUT!>

_( **Get It On** plays, bar fight ensues)_

**JT** : You’re right _Crockett_ , nothin’ ever changes!

<And that’s a wrap on _Power Station!_... thank fuck>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, The Power Station episode aired October 1985. This version of _Get It On _is trash and they are all coked up to their eyeballs but it’s still entertaining. Only John was given dialogue and yes, he really did sound worse ‘more painfully British’ (not just painfully Brummie- somehow) than normal.__ _  
>  _https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=F_O2Lw0wuSA_  
> _


	17. The Thunder To His Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was about time the guitarist was appreciated the way he should have always been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited liberally from my standalone fic of the same name which was originally written with this prompt day in mind. I see some potential in it, maybe I could flesh it out further someday...

**Prompt Day 17:** Missing Each Other

 **Pairing:** John/Andy

_London, 1987_

_Thunder_ was beautiful. _Thunder_ was full of heart, rhythm and soul. A passion, a fire that Duran, that John himself, had watched be dimmed and dimmed for years. Be extinguished, burnt out by the synth-fuelled blaze that was the haze of the decade. The craze, what the zeitgeist seemed to demand from them. John couldn’t pin point exactly which track it was that had made him crumble, which one had wrecked him, which one had torn his apart at the seams but that didn’t matter.

What mattered now, for John at least, was clinging to Andy and his music in any way that he could. Living it, breathing it. Soaking up that spark, riding out his fire. His storm, John scoffed, wondering just where the thunder to his lightning was right now. Where he was playing. How his album was doing. How Andy himself was keeping.

He wouldn’t be coming home to John on his _Night Train_. He wouldn’t be coming to John’s bed. On some absurd level, sobbing uncontrollably as he forced himself to believe it, John knew and was beginning to accept that. _Tremblin’_ just like Andy said he would.


	18. Crucial Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exercise is important when touring. As is pleasure. And pain.

**Prompt Day 18:** Crucial Three

Simon/John/Nick

_1987_

_Skin Trade Tour_

Falling to his knees, he engulfed the aching member before him with ease; finding his rhythm. The bassist groaned, hands gripping tight at his hair, desperate to stop himself thrusting into that dizzying warmth. His hips snapped into action as he was sucked deeper, rocking forward on his heels, clutching aimlessly at he head that bobbed before him.

He was weeping, shuddering as that tongue swirled with more force; whining as that tongue pulled away. The bassist tried to focus, be a fridge and to keep cool, but the intense sensation of the keyboardist having just dropped to his knees like that, a hand on himself like that was already proving too much. Too stimulating, he was bucking readily into that taunting mouth.

The bassist groaned, another hot and wet tongue lapped at his skin. Starting at his neck, the singer nipped and sucked his way upwards; drawing whine after whine from the trembling bassist who was putty in his hands. The singer’s teasing lips rounded his jaw, licking across the tender underside before pulling away to chuckle at the sounds he ripped from the bassist. Turning, a smooth hand yanked him over, shoving his tongue inside those parted lips with a yelp. Their tongues battled for dominance, sucking breath after breath as the bassist’s knees began to give way and he fought recklessly to keep standing.

A frustrated grunt and the keyboardist pulled away, two fingers loosely circled around himself. He caught that mischievous glint, the spark that never really left the singer’s beady eye. A subtle nod and back to all fours he was, knees shoulder width apart. Presentation was key, the bassist having fallen into step behind him.

His talented fingers wormed their way through, teasing and prying the keyboardist open: drawing whine and hiss after hiss. The keyboardist writhed beneath him, moans being swallowed by the singer impressive length.

The bassist and singer prodded into him in time, a steady rhythm on both ends. The keyboardist was shivering with the high the rush, the pleasure burning on both ends. Then, his ears pricked up, with a grunt from behind. The bassist was now kneeling on him, one hand buried in the keyboardist and the other having slipped around his own lanky thigh. His fingers were trailing higher and higher, spreading himself and diving in; circling his hole with wild and rough strokes.

Glancing upwards, lustful glances full of heat, the keyboardist nodded to the singer who withdrew; a small bead of saliva following him. The singer rounded them both, catching the bassist in a rough kiss before he settled at his back. Pulling the bassist upwards, he caught his slick member and began to stroke slowly. Up and down, up and down, revelling in the pulse and shivers that ran hot down the bassist’s spine.

Pushing him back over, the bassist’s hands clutched tight to the keyboardist’s pasty thighs before him; kneading the skin. Brushing himself up against it, quivering as the fluids began to trickle down. Catching a hold of himself, the bassist spread his own seed atop of his length and began to buck, using the keyboardist for leverage: moaning wildly.

The singer’s fingers were working wonders, opening him up and rearranging his insides. Not much longer, the bassist couldn’t hold out.

Snatching two condoms from beside him on the bed, the singer tore one open with his teeth, using his free hand to display it for the bassist before him. Hurrying, he slipped it on and the singer was just a moment behind. He couldn’t hold on, he had to bury himself deep inside the keyboardist before him. The bassist groaned as he inched himself in, trembling as the singer did the same. Then, reaching he hilt, they both paused to release a pleased sigh.

As the singer pulled back, hands around the bassist’s hips, he engulfed a shaky breath and pushed home: slamming the keyboardist straight into the mattress; rubbing himself profusely on the fabric.

The strokes were strong and powerful, all three needing to reach their peak and reach it soon. Struggling to push himself up, the keyboardist latched onto the bed post as he was driven into it, moans dropping off of his pasty lips. The bassist jackhammered all that he could, leaning forward to bite at his shoulder and muffle a cry. The singer felt his heat, hips speeding up to fill him in a frenzy.

The bassist, eager and receiving play on both ends was first to crumble, first to fill and swell and moan and whine as he bucked desperately into the keyboardist, pushing his own hips backwards even more desperately into the singer’s length. His hips buckled, skipping on the track as his relief crashed over him; shivering as he whited out, emptying himself into the poor keyboardist before him.

Panting, flushed and mussed, the bassist reached a heavy hand forward and snaked it around the keyboardist, stroking him rapid as the singer continued to pound into him. The bassist stayed, hips unable to move for themselves as the pressure built within the keyboardist’s core and the singer drilled on, sending them both crashing into the mattress again. The bassist’s strokes were jittering and anything but skilled, enough to send the keyboardist into overdrive: body contorting around the bassist’s already limp length.

The singer was thrusting in earnest now, each man rocked in time as his thrusts deepened and his fingers were clawing at both men before him. Yanking the bassist by the hips backward, groaning, he filled him. Over and over, fingers losing purchase as the bruised and battered him. The bassist had tears forming, cheeks aflame as he drilled himself backwards and milked the singer dry.

Falling forward, they collapsed like dominoes, still connected with the keyboardist face first into the ruined sheets. With a shaky breath, the singer pushed himself upwards in hopes to slip himself free.

A look of fear, loneliness and worry from the bassist before him, a subtle hand clutching desperately to his arm told him that no; not yet. He didn’t have to move, just embrace the bassist longer. Let the bassist blanket their keyboardist for another precious minute.


	19. I Know What I’m Talking About... Don’t I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has a story. Nick isn’t so convinced of its authenticity.

**Prompt Day 19:** Crazy Fans

 **Pairing:** Roger&Nick + Roger/John

_2008_

“I can’t believe you and that imagination!”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no way the world will believe it. Perhaps if that slander came from John, as opposed to you, then maybe. But honestly Roger, to me, it’s bollocks.”

“What are you talking about Nick? It happened! I was there! With my son!”

“Naked women just throw themselves atop of cars through Los Angeles?”

“Uh, not surprisingly yes!”

…

“You still don’t believe me do you, Nick?”

“No. Besides, it’s not as though you can prove it.”

“Well, I, I guess I can’t but.. it happened!”

“There were far too many women flocking to the limousines back in the day, perhaps you’re getting careless memories again? You have been gone a long time.”

“Nick! That’s such a bullshit John thing to say.”

“Why do our conversations always resort back to him, in some way?”

“I don’t know.. you’re his best friend and I’m his.. his uh—”

“—Rhythm section?”

“That. Yes, I’m that.”

…

“I bet John would believe my story. He’d be picturing it too.”

“He would probably wish to have been in the car with you, if all the planets aligned and this indeed actually happen.”

“Nick, it freaking did! I swear, me and Julian we’re taking a ride through the city, heading to John’s and… and uh.”

“We’re back to John, aren’t we.”

“Yeah… why Nick? Why are we always coming back to him?”

“Not we. _You_.”

“Me?”

“Yes Roger, you. It’s been two decades, you’ll never stop coming back to him and he, Nigel I mean, will be right there to meet you in the middle.”

“You, uh, you really think so?”

“I know so, I’ve known him near thirty years Roger. And besides, when am I ever wrong about him?”

“About who? Nigel or John?”

“… Both.”

“You’re not.”

“Exactly.”

“… Bet John would totally believe my story.”

“You know what Roger, why don’t we just ask him. Why don’t you throw your nude self atop his Aston Martin and let nature run it’s course.”

“WHAT?!”

“See you in the studio, Froggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of an actual interview Roger gave where he states a woman threw herself atop of his car, family in tow, mostly nude. Interesting.


	20. All He Wants Is Not Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does your heart say now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an absolute mess. Has been, for a month of so.
> 
> I’ve done so many music videos already, all my faves. Some of which, I’ve done multiple times!

**Prompt Day 20:** Favourite Video

 **Pairings:** Simon/Yasmin & Nick/Julie Anne & John/Renée

  
Sharp moves. Staccato head. Limbs cocked and limbs jerked, all rooted to the ground.

A single frame. A camera click. Move an inch. A camera flash.

He was a puppet; a literal one. Being picked up and hoisted over a shoulder. Being thrown down in the centre of the set.

Eyes wide, blinding by the lights, he took a seat.

Sit still. Arms out.

Sit still. Arms in.

A plate lay before him. Nothing on it; no appetite. He didn’t need one, the stick.

Mouth dropping open, he ‘ate.’

Pick up spoon. Feed self.

Fish appears. Chew food.

Mouth closing, he was done.

Clambering to his feet, legs stiff, he shuffled, forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Head cocked, nose tipped low, he was lead through to a new room.

Three men, dead as doornails, perched. One bright blonde. Red trousers. Sunglasses. Another brown. Pink. Leather. Mocking him, stealing his light.

He paused, thrown into his chair. Gloved hands up, palms open. Twinge of head. Hair in eyes.

One by one they pointed, rotating, stopping. He followed, head jolting sharp.

Three women, lifeless. Stood still. No breaths.

A whistle, blue and silver, man hauled to his feet. Walk. Pause. Walk, turn head.

Other puppet up, brown hair in eyes. Eyes too wide to see. Ordered, laying down, two shots.

  
She’s been pulling him by the hand inside.

Eyes wide. Strip shirt.

Eyes dark. Throw away.

  
Stealing all his toys.

Head up, lips parted, lie nude. Briefs were tight, white. He caught her gaze, dark and mysterious. She didn’t move. He couldn’t. No orders.

Two men at his side. Fully clothed. Red trousers, pink leathers. Blink and they’ve gone.

Sat at table, he on bed. Two women, laying on side. Pink leather had a beauty top, foreign. Model mother. Red trousers. Model mother. Both scantily clad, twisting and turning. Babe in hand.

  
Pleasure in suspension.

No movements.

A third. Beckoned over. Model yes, mother no. She wanted too much.

All She Wants Is.

_More!_

Thrown down. Nude. Roll around. Pose. Roll around.

Get inside.

Devine intervention, couldn’t keep the word from leaking out.

Wrapper in hand, he offered her protection. She threw it. Moaning. Lace on the floor, heels in place.

That’s more!

Manoeuvre slowly, stop and start. Fits and starts. He was controlled, no head for himself. Eyes wide, limbs jerking, she was on top of him. Moaning, grunting. He echoed her.

  
More.

All She Wants Is his?

  
More!

Get closer.

Stripped bare. Head jerk. Froth at mouth.

Lower onto him, he sat still. Cotton barrier yanked away.

She’d get what she wants.

He’d get nothing.

  
Get closer.

Four eyes, dark and dead, watch. Two women, two men. Babe in hand. Perfect partners. Built that way.

Her sex bot. He wanted non. Her baby giver, she’d manufacture.

All She Wants Is.

  
More.

More.

More!

What does your heart say now?


	21. Take Me Every Morning, Take Me Every Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally have a new guitarist and all John wants is more!

**Prompt Day 21:** Big Thing

**Pairing:** John/Warren

_1988_

_Big Thing Recording Session_

“So, you’re _in_.”

“Yeah, finally.”

“Feel any different?”

“No, nothin’ yet.”

Chancing a glance upwards, John watched as the last of the band moved out; leaving just he and Duran’s new guitarist alone. The others were done for the day, leaving the two of them to work out a bassline for _Drug_. John could’ve sworn he was about there, rolling about a small white packet in his fingers.

“You wanna?” He asked, emptying out the contents.

“Fuck it.”

They both slumped down, John being ever so courteous to let the new An- _Guitarist_ take the first sniff. He watched, as the body contorted itself down, somehow ever so elegantly. A single huff and not even a jolt in discomfort, or adjustment.

Well what could he say? John was more than a little impressed.

He followed suit, head twitching as up his sacred powder went. It took his a couple minutes, head spinning and thoughts growing cloudy, jittering and running his mouth before he headed back to plop down atop the sofa; staring the new guy in the eye.

“Have I ever told you,” he was feeling oddly bold, “that… you’re _hot_.”

There was a chuckle, John gaped.

“Yes Johnny, you have. Repeatedly.”

“Oh. Well uh, you know I… I _do_.”

“What I do?”

“That too… shit.”

A small bout of laughter, “thanks, John.”

John bit into his lip, eyes fleeting to the body beside him. They ran down the smooth chest, his shirt had been chucked somewhere long ago. They ran over the strong muscles, tight leathers encasing those thighs, then back up to settle right above that gleaming golden belt buckle. John lingered a while, missing what was said.

“Huh?!” He jumped, a hand on his thigh.

“You’re not as smooth as ya make yourself out to be, Johnny.”

“I’m… I’m not,” he conceded the point. “No, no man I’m _not_.”

There was a smile. A warm, welcome smile that John met readily; although he was surely blushing and struggling to hold eye contact.

“John, out with it. What is it ya want from me?”

John stumbled over his tongue. There was a calloused hand in his hair, running down the dark ends and coming to settle on his cut jawline. He learnt into it, involuntarily, blaming his rush for moaning as he did so.

“So glad _you_ came along… this time _you_ won’t.. uh.. yeah!” John sang, poorly.

Also blaming his rush, saw John leap to his feet, huff another line of powdered courage and plop himself right down into that lap.

Grinning, wider than the Cheshire Cat, John looped his arms around him; feeling his warmth and teasing him with his own leather clad hips. Grinding slightly, laughing as he did so.

“Here.”

“Here John?”

“ _Now_.”

A roll of darkened eyes, John was already bouncing in that lap. His eyes were so wide, his hands jittering as he undid his own button, falling forward to brush his half-hard self against those deliciously cut abs.

Before long he was nude from the waist down, a blazer barely covering them both. John was rocking slowly, hissing as talented fingers made short work of opening him up and spreading him. He shucked off his shirt, hands fumbling. Trembling, he clutched around that neck tighter; fingers losing purchase in that mullet, moaning as another torturous digit wormed it’s way inside him.

Then, laughing, he was picked up, thrown back down onto the sofa and blanketed by a much healthier; solid figure. They were kissing now, tongues hungry and desperate to explore. John had a clumsy hand on himself, another clutching at the leather that was so readily peeled away above him.

Groaning and grunting, moaning himself hoarse, John slammed his head back into the pillows and was swiftly entered: legs around cut hips; clutching tirelessly at the leather sofa all around him. They were fast, weren’t quiet, nipping and sucking to the point of drawing blood and staining John’s pasty skin with it. He clawed at the body, that refined ass as it drove into him harder and faster: desperate to refrain from touching himself and ruining their moment.

Hips slamming, together they bucked: a wild stallion on a runt; racing to reach their peak. He was huge, John’s body slamming down and all around a member so familiar and so alien all at once. Bleeding the line between pain and pleasure, whining as hickeys dusted his skin; John was so close. Ever so close to losing it completely, whiting out and deafening himself to the blaring guitar solos all around him.

Biting down on his bottom lip, drawing blood, John then screamed as that special spot was hit; wriggling all around it and shoving his hips back. Desperate to draw it out, to see the white behind his eyes and have that ringing in his ears over take him. Elevate him, ruin him as he was destroyed from within. He came long and hard, painting his skin white, shoving a hand down to himself; lapping it up and using it.

His insides were driving them both mad, clutching tight to the member that still pulsed; still hammered. Clutching tight to the lips that bit him, that sucked at his ear, that tongue sweeping against the underside of his jaw.

_All he wants is more_.

Clutching as tight as he could, John screamed as they let rip: filling him; over and over.

He bucked his hips back, desperate to milk each and every precious drop, stretch himself further and to take it all in. Clutching aimlessly at that hair, convulsing again beneath him, together they both came crashing down with choked off moans and little laughs.

_That’s more!_

Wincing, John’s face screwed up as they withdrew, helping to bring John up and over; so he was resting on that sweaty chest – pressure off of his ass, slumping forward. John had a face full of pecs, he licked them, before pulling away to plant a huge and sloppy kiss atop of sweaty cheeks.

“Now does it feel any different, actually being in the band?” He posed, giggling.

Stealing another kiss, “you’re damn right, Johnny.”

John couldn’t hide that momentary beaming smile.

“So, you’ll stay? Warren, please tell me you’ll stay.” And yet, he couldn’t mask the insecurity behind that post orgasmic glow.

His eyes were wide, dimmed red as somehow tears were forming. John was so overcome with intense emotion, the connection already running deeper than he could’ve imagined that he almost missed Warren’s:

“ _Yeah_.”

“You… you mean it?” John cocked his head, sure he had misheard.

“I mean it Johnny. It took you assholes long enough to make me a _proper_ member,” Warren chuckled, tender hands running through John’s dark hair, “I’ll be stickin’ around.”

John sighed happily, hands clutching at Warren’s thighs; now dangerously close to his—

All he wants is.

“And besides, this gig’s got great perks.”

“Oh,” John perked up, “has it now.”

His tongue was dangerously close to the member that was already reviving itself before John’s bewildered eyes. It darted out, taking a swift lick, savouring Warren’s taste and the taste of them together.

“Fuck yeah,” Warren grunted, the sound ever so beautiful being ripped from that throat, “it sure as fuck _does_ Johnny.


	22. When All Is Said And Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heavy heart, he’s got a confession no, _resignation _to make.__

**Prompt Day 22:** A Hug From Simon

 **Pairing:** Simon/Roger

_July 13th 1985_

_JFK Stadium_

Fiddling with his collar, he slumped the blazer around his shoulders. He shivered, feeling the chill bought about by the wafting fabric. The rest of the band had scurried out, he couldn’t care to follow. He was determined to use every damn minute he could, savour the solitude not just for the sake of being awkward but for his own sanity. And besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t know where the stage or his kit was.

A muffled knock on the dressing room door had him groaning, straightening up and for reasons he couldn’t quite figure out; walking over to it and unlatching the lock.

“Hey Rog! You in there?” The knock sounded again, oddly rhythmical. Something that vaguely resembled the drum solo introduction of _Wild Boys._

Inside Roger was smiling at that, knowing who was waiting for him, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to beam on the outside too.

“We’ll be on in ten, what are you—”

Simon cut himself off, at the downtrodden look and feel that was coursing through the drummer’s veins. It was infectious somehow, as Simon slipped in the dressing room and locked the door behind them both. He was determined to not let the negative energy bring him down.

“Rog… what’s wrong?” Simon’s voice was unusually hesitant.

Roger began to slip away, heading for the sofa to collapse atop it; azure blazer dropping from his shoulders. Simon watched, confused, at how the drummer didn’t bother to fetch it. To fold it and place it neatly at his side. He frowned.

“Roger?”

“Yeah Simon?”

“I said,” he began, voice cautious, “what’re you still doing here? We have ten minutes and- _oh_.”

Roger had his head in his hands, shoulders jittering ever so slightly. Simon immediately rushed to his side, enveloping his smaller frame in his own. Simon’s huge hands rubbed across his back gently, reeling him in, letting Roger bury his head in his chest instead; submerged by his black blazer. Roger’s tears painted his Drum t-shirt, not that Simon seemed to mind.

“Hey, hey, what is—” Simon cut himself off, the drummer shifted in his grip.

Craning his head up to meet the singer, Roger’s brows furrowed as his bloodshot eyes landed on Simon’s gaze. Simon frowned, pulling his beloved Froggy in closer.

Then, with sudden strength that surprised them both. “I… Simon, I _can’t_ do this anymore.”

A hesitation, Simon rolled his words around in his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want too, I don’t _need_ too… shit, I’m not doing anymore of this. Enough is enough!”

“Rog, what?” Simon paused to lick his lips, thinking it through, “what do you mean?”

With a heavy breath, heartstrings tearing, “this… this is my _last_ show, Simon.”

“What a… a way to _go out_ then.” Simon couldn’t quite believe his words.

He fought to keep his gaze on Roger’s face, who was hastily wiping at the tears and smearing his makeup in the process. There was a muttered ‘shit’ and Simon’s eyes landed back on the poor man before him.

Barely able to keep his own tears at bay, the singer lurched forward to wrap him in a tight embrace; sniffles and sobs synching up on both ends.

“I’ll miss the one Taylor with his sanity. With a level head, rationality that keeps us all in check.”

“What _sanity_?! Who willingly walks away from all this?” Roger spat, bottom lip trembling.

Simon knew exactly what that meant. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen the warning sirens, artfully dodging the truth that out of all of them: perhaps it really was their little Frog who was suffering the most; emotionally and physically.

The delivery was painful, Simon chose just words carefully. “A person sane enough to… _understand_ what’s happening to them, can accept it. I won’t think any less of you, Roger, should you… you want to follow through.”

Roger never wanted this, what ever it was they still had, no body had expected even a tenth of their success.

“It’s okay… we’ll, uh, we’ll find a way.”

With another cry, Roger pulled away first. Immediately Simon leant him a hand, wiping his tears in a tender motion which saw Roger’s eyes fluttering closed and a smile trying to cross his face.

“Rog,” his voice was straining now – not good at all – “listen to me. It’s twenty minutes, a f- _final_ oh god.” The realisation hit him hard, the _Fab Five_ were crumbling all around him and now this. “A final twenty minutes and then, please, we’ll talk about it properly okay? Please.”

Biting into his bottom lip, still stifling more tears, Roger nodded. Simon held out a cautious hand, trying to stop trembling, desperate for Roger to take it. When he did, Simon felt his whole body cool; the wave of relief hit him hard.

“Don’t forget,” Simon nodded to the discarded Anthony Price blazer jacket.

Roger fetched it, smoothing out the creases. Together they walked hand in hand to the dressing room door, unlatching it together; before Simon’s hands moved to Roger’s shuddering shoulders, massaging small circles across the blue that encased his muscular frame.

“You know the door will always be open, I’ll eagerly wait for the day you come back.”

“For how long?”

Smiling softly, “doesn’t matter.”

Engulfing a shaky breath, it was Roger who broke this bout of silence; near defeated by the hundred thousand fans out there: calling for them, screaming _their_ name.

“Don’t mess up _A View To A Kill!_ ” He was cheeky, Simon nudging his cheek causing him to grin.

“I won’t, relax. I’ve got this.”


	23. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hair dye can be a lethal weapon. Even more so than Le Bon’s tambourine.

**Prompt Day 23:** Wedding Album 

**Pairing:** John & Nick

_1993_

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Sure, what have we got to lose?”

John was staring down to boxes of hair dye. His eyes caught sight of the adventurous colour palettes, the ‘long lasting’ label and grinned.

“What are you on?”

He threw his up, narrowing his gaze as it roamed over Nick. John said nothing.

The day was an adventure in and of itself. John accidentally poured a little too much dye down his best friend’s back, not that Nick was very happy about that. He’d get his own back though, later, much later.

Standing proud before the mirror, they admired their new do’s. John’s hair was flaming (a flaming disaster?) red, even brighter than the baby days by a mile. Nick squinted, the maroon seemed to have better suited John’s pasty skin. Or Nigel’s, whoever. But Nigel was more than lost now and John wanted it _loud_.

Nick chanced a look at himself, hazel gaze running over the lilac that painted his bright blonde. It was adventurous even for him, by a mile. Perhaps it even made his _Arcadia_ goth prince aura seem normal. He blamed the zeitgeist, how times had changed. Back then, 1985, mullets teased to the skyline were normal: everyone wanted what he dared to do; a hairstyle pioneer he was. Now, with a sigh, he wasn’t too sure his look would have the same effect.

Oh well, it would only be for a couple videos and shoots. Duran were known for mixing it up on the regular. That’s what Nick would blame. And John’s eagerness (or was it Amanda?) for this disaster vibe too.


	24. Thrills And Frills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The frills were painful and required expert hands to remove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not too sure this fills the prompt correctly but I love it and kept it going as I wanted to soooo

Prompt Day 24: Accidental Kiss

Pairing: Andy/Roger

_1981_

_Backstage at ‘Planet Earth’ Set_

Shooting had just about wrapped for the day, the five of them were ushered out and headed for the grotty dressing rooms at the end of the hall. Fingering his collar, loosening the black frilly thing, Roger popped open the top two buttons and slid into the room furthest from the main stage.

He stalled, blinking, before realising that he hadn’t been heard coming in. Andy wasn’t looking at him, he was faffing with his freshly dyed dirty blonde-gray mish mash and muttering something.

Shyness already taking over, he cursed how he still felt insecure around his band members (especially after having taken his shirt off for take after take, exposing his throat and tender underside to his jaw) and began to shuffle towards him. Roger kept his gaze up, although it tried to waver, wondering how long it would take for the guitarist to properly acknowledge him.

Andy was tearing at the ruffled nightmare that coated his chest. Giggling slightly, cursing inwardly again for having made a sound, Roger now stood behind him; crowding him in the mirror. Andy smiled, hands still trying to gnaw at the fluffy barrier. Roger helped him, hands soft and oddly controlled through his shakes, eyes firmly on their reflections. Then, realisation of the intimacy of his actions, Roger’s hands were trembling, it had been a long day and a lot of drumming: not that he was really making much noise or any of the other instruments were plugged in, Roger noted with a smile.

Eventually, they both freed Andy from his shackles of a shirt and the guitarist slipped it off of himself with a nod of thanks. Roger bit into his bottom lip, wondering why he was staring as Andy threw on a tank and began shimmying out of his trousers. Andy, as usual, was shameless. He caught Roger’s glance, smirking back. Roger flushed a shade of crimson darker, turning away to face himself in the mirror again.

Instead, a unsure hand began to in unbutton his ruffled black linen shirt. He didn’t get very far until Andy was right there with him, rolling his eyes to free Roger of the girlish fabric.

His hands didn’t get very far, having wandered upwards to cup Roger’s jaw. He stiffened, the drummer leant into it with parted lips and closed eyes. Eyelashes fanning, he ground his head into that open palm; letting Andy’s calloused thumb caress his face and round to his lips. He leant in, as did Roger, taking his thumb into his mouth and biting softly.

Roger’s gaze had darkened, looking up with a sparkle in his eye, from underneath his lashes. Andy withdrew, smiling, now nose to nose; bopping into Roger as he swooped down to claim his lips in his.

Pulling away, Andy mumbled, “whoops.”

“Whoops?”

“Didn’t mean to do that, mate.”

“Oh,” Roger was disappointed, taking a step back.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t like it though, Rog.”

“Oh?” He repeated, stepping back forward.

Stuttering, “will you do it again?”

Smiling, hands cupping Roger’s flushed cheeks, Andy leant back in. Roger giggled as their lips met, moulding together perfectly. His own hands fell to Andy’s hips, bringing him in even closer. His lips parted and Roger deepened the kiss, stealing Andy’s breath and bleeding life back into him.


	25. You Came And Turned My Life Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ll never forget the sight of you, entangled in our cream sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet taken from my upcoming Roger birthday fic! 💙💙

**Prompt Day 25:** Hurt/Comfort

 **Pairing:** John/Roger

If the band knew they didn’t say. We both figured that they did, how they hadn’t caught a cheeky grope or fleeting kiss was beyond me.

And then they caught us. I was horrified, terrified of losing you. To have you beside me, perform with me but you were no longer mine. You were above me, cracking before my eyes and shattering all around me. You came crashing down, tears so horrible that my gut still wrenches with the thought. You cried over and over, naked body falling atop of mine. You said you were sorry over and over, the three of them just watching you as I was too stunned to talk back. You got off of me, hiding what you could behind a ruined sheet. You were heading to the door, clothes in hand before you were stopped.

My heart leapt out of my chest. I was on my feet right behind you and then I hear the words “it’s okay, we know you’re both in love,” from our singer. We were both crying then, bodies shaking as we hugged, you were kissing me desperately; kissing away each tear. The three of them watched us, now entangled in a single white sheet. They bid us farewell, more than overjoyed to see you so happy.


	26. The Finest Hour That We See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger splayed out his polaroids, his little careless memories, with a smile.

**Prompt Day 26:** Fab Five Reuniting

_2004_

Taking a careful hold of the polaroids, Roger splayed them all out atop of the table. Nudging the worn in edges, he unfolded the creases and held them to the light, casting the careless memory in a butter yellow glow.

He was never one to really document much but, when the time called for it, he had to dig out a special little album of special little album photos. Each album and the initial promotional material, Roger kept those polaroids close.

It was strange, he figured, having to ‘convert’ the new editions into an older looking rendition of the _Roxy_ inspired shoot. The Fab Five finally had reunited after eighteen years apart and now they had a new album, each holding a guitar on the inner CD sleeve. He laughed, he really did look awkward with it: awkward with any form of instrument and standing up at the same time. An unknown variable to him!

It really was strange, seeing those shots and the solo ones with the added constellations and digits, in that sacred dated picture form he could never quite shake.

Splaying then out, he quickly arranged each set in order. From flouncy frills and silly stripes casually passed about by each member and somehow Andy missed his turn. To suddenly grown up and stuffy satin suits that only he and Simon really knew how to wear. Well, he supposed, Nick did too. If he wasn’t drowning in it! He smiled at another photo of he and John and John’s shirt sleeves were half hanging out of his black blazer, having failed at turning them back too. Or simply, John had just given up. Roger smiled, John still could barely tie his own tie. Then came the ones on the balcony, the blurry ones snapped at midnight. Their suit colours all shined, they were placed far apart so each band member had their own spotlight. They were also the least convincing crew of detectives, whatever the hell the idea for that shoot was, ever. The golden steps, being choked by the stuffy leather in the Aussie heat…

Roger didn’t slip out the black and white threesome prancing about before a single tree. Or any of the three being huddled together, in front of that cottage. Then a miraculous two editions, all posed before a white screen. Then back to four. Then three.

Taking a glance down, he fingered the groove of where his wedding ring used to be, with a small frown. Before, looking at the shrinking band’s photos, he would clutch tight to the gold and twirl it around his finger; like a comfort of sorts. But now, he didn’t need that same comfort. Not where the band were concerned anyways.

Roger skipped straight to 2004, in the here and now, ready to slip in these new shots with the old. He couldn’t believe how much the scene had changed, how they had each matured whether it be in the thick of it or watching from the sidelines.

Grasping his own portrait, now shrunk down to fit the polaroid, he clutched the pen close by. After a moment of thinking, he twisted off the lid and set the photograph down to write in his simple, engineer style print:

_Spring ’04: I’m not running this time, neither are they._


	27. I’ll Protect You, However I Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> String sliced fingertips interlaced with stick shot ones, raw palms open and calling for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I digressed a little from the prompt but hey ho, this story is precious and you’re having it anyway.

**Prompt Day 27:** In The Studio

 **Pairing:** John/Roger

_1984_

_Wild Boys Recording Session_

He wasn’t even sure how he did it, he must’ve really hit himself hard, totally lost the beat. He let his sticks clamber to the floor, smacking a cymbal as he got up in frustration and strut straight out without another word.

Hissing, the cool water pierced his skin. His hands were raw, bruised and battered, somehow much worse than what he was used too. He watched with interest at the little specs of red disrupting the clear as together they swirled about the drain.

He turned off the tap and clutched at some tissue, winding it around his fingers momentarily before he began the quest for plasters. He frowned, he should’ve learnt a long while ago to always keep a pack handy. Not just for the live shows, for the rehearsals too.

Before he could slip out of the bathroom, he was met with another band member, wearing a small smile. They flashed their own hands, littered with little red grooves and bruises too. But those war wounds were of a different nature. They still hurt, they still took pride in how they had gotten there but to him, casting a glance down at the red seeping through the thin tissue, they were a foreign object.

With a roll of those dark eyes, they lurched forward, so two sets of beaten fingers were brushing lightly. Teasingly, maybe, or tenderly. He didn’t know. It didn’t seem to matter, that little smile creeping onto those ruby lips before him said: _lovingly_. He straightened up, casting a glance down to their interlacing fingers. Together they bought their hands up, now back before the sink. Together they placed their hands on the mirror, he winced at the cool glass as it hit his skin.

He felt crowded, surrounded by a talker yet not so compact body; ever so close and creeping in even closer. He kept his gaze on their hands, side by side, braced on the glass before them. His were still bleeding and before he could comprehend it, plasters and gauze were being laid out before him. Little bandages too, just in case.

He smiled, as his hand fell from the mirror into another side grip. They were smooth, paying close attention, running their own callouses over his and they bumped bruises with a small giggle. They cleaned his wounds, he winced at the antiseptic slicing his open ones. Then, he breathed a sigh of relief as together they decided what aid he needed.

He couldn’t help but smile, plasters in hand, watching them fumble slightly on securing it tight. When the job was done, hands now a disarray of white fabrics, he smiled again: they hadn’t let him go.

They interweaved their own string sliced fingertips in with his stick shot ones, before they found confidence to fully grasp the palm that was open; raw and open. The palm that was open to him.

They grinned, cheeks colouring, as his hand was bought up. He blushed over how each bruised knuckle was kissed swiftly, how his bandaged palm was massaged softly. Then his hand was dropped although they still clutched tight.

They ran their free hand into his hair, smoothing out the darkened ends and the little beads of sweat that dropped from them. He could feel them trembling, so was he, but his lips were parted. His lips were inviting, itching to be touched, in a way he maybe hadn’t thought before. Or maybe he had.

Those lips were as soft and attentive as he had always thought, perfectly moulding into his own plush ones in a small and tender embrace. Pulling away they were both smiling, battered hand in hand as they began the slow walk back to the studio.


	28. Nobody Knows, What’s Gonna Happen Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He didn’t want to film it just yet, he wanted to just play and play. Let his hands run gracefully up and down the keys, staying wilder than the wind. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the new video of John at his piano, you know the one. 💙

**Prompt Day 28:** Present Day Duran

_Sunday 26th April, 2020_

Taking in a shaky breath, he slumped over the stool with his hands braced. They were hovering before him, mere inches above the danger that was the keys, mere inches from being pulled back to the safety that was at his sides; staying clear of those bum notes.

He caught sight of his _dirty mind_ , smiling softly he tried to envision his icon at the piano: although this one would be shining in a gleaming purple suit, he was much happier lounging about in a loose fitting jersey and fitted white trousers.

He didn’t want to film it just yet, he wanted to just play and play. Let his hands run gracefully up and down the keys, staying wilder than the wind.

With another inhale, he placed his fingers atop of the white, letting them blanket key after key. His beads clinked as he pressed down, lightly, finding a rhythm and piecing it together in his head. Having had so much time confined to a bedroom, now to his manor as a whole, he could willingly admit to having missed his keys, perhaps even more so than his bass with strings just aching to be touched.

His fingers caressed key after key, running up octaves and running over his scales. A simple warm up, he was crafting the melody and his fingertips were living them out. His mind flashed back to the early days, how Nigel had had a family piano and not a single soul in his household knew how to play it. He didn’t, not until John took it upon himself, as a wave of inspiration hit him in ’86: classical music, in a way he had never known.

He had little flashes to John playing in his New York penthouse, to John playing in his London apartment; finally having a grand piano in both. It was stark white, if his memory served him correctly, matching his prized bass from that time. The notes rang out loud and powerful, amplifying his mistakes and making them known to the entirety of the top floor.

Now though, his piano was on the smaller scale. A more muted mahogany placed before all his books, in a grand space cluttered by paintings (some by him during this challenging time) and little knick knacks, random pieces of furniture laid atop of some questionable light patterned carpets.

He was lost in his playing, having graduated to the greats; letting his own renditions ring out in the large space. He was swaying with it now, eyes closed and lips parted, hat bobbing as he did, beads clanking as he did.

He was yet to really try his hand at any Duran tracks, the _9 ½ Weeks_ ones were somewhat a distant memory and yet, even the newer more tinkly instrumentals the four of them had crafted seemed like a line he couldn’t quite cross. Stepping on their own keyboardist, stealing his best friend’s sparkly thunder.

Maybe someday, someday soon, he could grace his own confined world with his renditions of the Duranie favourites. It was definitely a step up, he thought, a scary step up. Leaving his prized bass behind for something much softer, more noble.

But for now; the keys were calling to him and John, inspiration soaring, was ready to answer back.


	29. You Miss Him? Always.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s really trying but something just isn’t quite right.

**Prompt Day 29:** Reminiscing Together

 **Pairing:** John/Simon & John/Roger

_1989_

“Okay, take a look. Tell me, what am I missing?”

Simon and Nick peered over, trying to decipher John’s scrawl. In theory it was every single they had released, A-sides they wanted mainly, the ones that people actually remembered. Simon squinted, trying time tear the letters apart from one another and smiling with pride as he stated:

“Uh Johnny, where’s _The Reflex_?”

He heard John’s groan, giggling slightly at the slump of his shoulders.

“C’mon John, that’s the most obvious one!” Simon kept it light. “The number _one_! How did you miss that?”

“Don’t start on me, man. I dunno.”John cast a glance Simon’s way.

Simon coughed, not wanting to make John feel worse by stating:

“Also, _Save A Prayer_.”

“Of for fucks sake!” There was a little frustrated whine.

“The B-sides are near spot on though, John, don’t think we’re gonna want to use _We Need You_ and _Secret Oktober_ though _._ ”

“I’m surprised you even remember that one in the first place,” Nick’s voice was tinged with disbelief.

John flung the page into Nick’s direction, frustrated, “just highlight the damn main ones already and brainstorm.”

With a sigh, Nick did just that.

“Wait John, hang on, where’s New Moon On—”

“—Don’t you even finish that sentence, Charlie!” Nick spat, “I’m not in the mood for it.”

“That was hilarious though.”

Simon bit back every retort that related to France, dancing, dancing in France, alcohol and Nick dancing in France because alcohol and John made him do it. Plus more alcohol. Plus France.

“John, what’s going on?” Nick had a hand on his shoulder, John shucked himself away.

He didn’t say anything. Simon and Nick shared another look.

“Nigel?”

There was a rustle as he turned to face them, sunglasses on, hair a mess. Nick slouched, crossing his arms and Simon sensed the warning siren, immediately sidling up on his friend’s side and wrapping his arms around the bassist. John didn’t exactly lean in but he didn’t exactly push Simon away either.

He muttered something, Simon asked him to repeat himself.

“Feels weird, you know. Doin’ this without _him_.”

The name didn’t go unheard, both Simon and Nick frowned. The air was thick, each band member was a little on edge. Ten years was a lot, far too early for a Greatest Hits compilation anyway, right? Far too late?

“You’re right.” Nick began, voice stern. “He should be a part of this, whether he was there for the track or not.”

Simon didn’t miss John swipe away a stray tear in his grip.

“You miss him, don’t you Johnny?” Simon hugged John tighter, who buried his face his neck.

A huff, a murmured “yeah” escaped the bassist’s lips. “Always.”

“Don’t we all?” Nick pitched in, with a small and fond smile. “I’ll call him, okay Nigel? You can speak first.”

Nodding, John broke away, eyes fleeting down to the scribbles he had made on the page and was more than ready to tear the thing up and toss it out the window with his last memory of…

“Rog,” John sniffed again, determined not to have his tears heard over the line, “we’re doin’ this, you know, thing… called uh, _Decade_ and….” He broke off, with another muffled cry.

Clutching tight to the track list, a single tear pelted the sheet.

“Froggy,” John sighed, “we could really use your help. I— uh, I _need_ you.”


	30. Before I Feel How Much My Eyes Have Darkened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So, you want to know the story of my life? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from my upcoming Duran vampire story, little did I realise I had written the first 5k within one sitting. I’m hoping to finish it then upload the instalments; or at least, get the first century down before posting. ❤️

**Prompt Day 30:** Your Choice

_June 1985_

“Just tell me! What happened in Tel Aviv.”

“Tel Aviv?” The was a scoff before him, a suede boot right by his face.

Withdrawing, shivering in a small ball, he hunched over and braved himself for the kick. It didn’t come.

Poorly backlit by the flames, barely able to make out the chains that he couldn’t comprehend hadn’t yet sliced his cheek; he trembled, aching for a reply.

“Tel Aviv? Surely a notorious poet such as yourself would require the full tale. From mountains in the north, down to here with you, back in the murky streets of my youth, having been _plagued_ by your kind since.”

“Plagued?” He rasped.

He was yanked up to standing, face flush and mere inches from.. from..

Their gazes locked, a tantalising Tiger – eye, doused with brown, on a simmering sapphire, which could barely hold itself as he felt the heat; simmering underneath his damp skin.

He was motioned back to the table, a stone cold motion, ordered back to it. He followed, his own boots clanking on the tile floor as he shuffled over. Taking a seat, fighting to keep his gaze aloft, he was faced by the creature again; lips now quirking upwards into something softer.

“I,” it began, tone dropping to match how he was before, “I’m going to ask you a final time. For you must give me your word, that you will not run. Not laugh, nor question the life I have lead. I only want to give you the explanation, _Simon_ , before I give you the chance… that I _never_ had.”

Running a nervous tongue across his plush bottom lip, he nodded, eyes fleeting back onto the piercing opals before him.

“Say the word, Simon.”

“What word?”

A cock up of lips, a slick hand running through overgrown silken hair.

“If your eyes are open, my dear, you will have all the information you ever _dared_ to let yourself know.” The words dropped, a daring baritone over took him and yet it cracked. Paving way for the endless insecurities, poorly hidden by that intimidating stance.

“Trust.”

A nod.

“Loyalty.”

A nod.

“You’ll have me forever,” a gulp, “Master Tay—”

He was hoisted from his seat, pulse soaring as they were taken higher and higher. They flew towards the window, crashing through it, shards flinging all around them and he was dropped. Just like that. Heaving, breath hitching, he could barely regain it as he stumbled back to standing. With a hand on his throat, cautious, he pivoted around and was blinded by the lights.


End file.
